44-04-13_The_Marvelous_Barastro.txt

Roma Wines present Suspense Roma Wines made in California for enjoyment throughout the world. Salud. Your health, senor. Roma Wines toast the world. The wine for your table is Roma Wine. Made in California for enjoyment throughout the world. This is the man in black here to introduce this weekly half hour of suspense. Tonight from Hollywood, we bring you Mr. Orson Welles. Mr. Welles will appear as star of a suspense play called The Marvelous Barastro from an extraordinary story by the distinguished American author Ben Hex. But before we raise the curtain on this evening's tale of suspense, here is a message from your host, the Roma Wine Company of Fresno, California. Distance lends enchantment, says the old proverb, and it seems borne out in such little episodes as these. Let's pretend we're guests at the smart and handsome Pan American Club, Havana, Cuba. An American visitor is amazed that his Cuban host can picture the marvelous climate and rich, fruitful soil of California without ever having been there. But the Cuban responds One sip alone of wonderful Roma wine tells me all that. Only true perfection of climate and soil could produce the perfection of your splendid California wine, Roma wine. Well, that's so. And as Roma wines become available to wine connoisseurs of more and more lands, the chorus of praise grows for the truly superb quality of these good Roma wines. No wonder, then, these wine experts of other lands are so eager to import Roma wines, no matter what the distances from our own California. And no wonder, too, that these taste delighting Roma wines, with no import duty to pay and without expensive shipping charges added to their cost here, are America's largest selling wines. With such richly rewarding enjoyment within your reach, Why not get acquainted with your favorites among Roma Wines' many different delightful wine types? Remember the name? Roma, Roma Wines, made in California for enjoyment throughout the world. And now, with the marvelous Barastro produced and directed by William Spear, and with the performance of Orson Welles, we again hope to keep you in suspense. This is William Spear. Three weeks ago, I was seated in my office pouring over. Possible future stories with which to hold you in suspense when a stranger appeared unannounced. I am the marvelous Barastro. I've come to tell you a story. How did you get in here? I'm a magician by trade. I do such things. Perhaps you've heard of me, Barastro. No. I'm the greatest magician alive. No, that is not so. I'm the second greatest. But soon I will be first. I am leaving tonight for Mexico City. You see me now for the first and last time. You will never see me again. No one will ever see me again. It is the last of Barastro. How's that? I'm going to Mexico City to murder a man. His name is Rico Sansoni. Why are you going to kill him? Because he's the most evil man in the world. I've been waiting 20 years for his name to appear. For as long as he chose to hide, there was no hope. He's too clever, far too clever, even for me. But I knew that his vanity would betray him and that someday I would read again the name Rico Sansoni. I knew he'd return to the city. Is he a magician? The greatest who ever lived, the most profound, the most subtle, and the most evil. He's greater than I. He begins his first performance in 20 years in Mexico next week. I will be there to see it. Well, I would like to hear your story. I can tell you all but the end. That I will be unable to provide now. But you will find it out for yourself. Well, I'd like to hear what you can tell me. I will tell you, Mr. Spear, but on one condition. And that? I must have your oath not to interfere. Oh, Really now? You can understand I can scarcely give you that after all I've done. Ah, very well, very well, very well. I will take my chances with you. The story begins 20 years ago. I was a young man. I traveled as a magician with a small carnival through southeastern Europe. One night we came to a village in Malo, Russia. Our cymbals sounded, our torches flickered in the spring wind, and the villagers gathered around our tents and wagons. I had taken my place in the black box outside my tent. There were holes in the box through which I could watch the crowd while the barker made his announcement. Baratro, the marvel of marble! Baratro, the magician, who speaks with the dead and reads the secret of life! At this moment, at this moment, I saw her for the first time. Her young and gentle face surprised me among so many peasants. I said to myself, what a strange girl, what a beautiful child. I kept watching her. I couldn't keep my eyes away from her. At length, an old peasant led her in, holding her by the hand. I saw at once that she was blind. My granddaughter would like you to tell her future. Can you tell my future? Yes. Will it be a happy one, my future? Hold out your hand, and I will tell you. Here. A dark mist passed over me. I felt a sudden chill as I touched her hand. I listened to the voices which foretell the future. Sorrow, sorrow they breathed. Pain and sorrow. Fly, run. I studied the girl's face, a fear gripping at my heart. Her large, sightless eyes were calm, resigned. I could not bring myself to tell her what I saw. These spirits promise you happiness. I lied. Your hands will touch beautiful things. Love and delight will await you. Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you. That was the beginning. Her face haunted me that night. I could not sleep. I made inquiries the next morning and I found her. We walked through the hills. She did not need my hand to guide her. She knew every stone, every turn of the path. She spoke of the trees around us. She had strange names for them. I call that tree lullaby because it sings when it sways in the wind. Lullaby? And that one, see, with its branches open towards heaven? I call that one prayer. How do you know its branches open toward the sky? When I was younger, I climbed it. Anna. Come, I'll race you to the bed of flowers at the turn. Anna. Hurry, I run far. We walked often through the hills. I knew that she was aware of her destiny. The stars had told me she would not live long, and that agony and terror waited for her on this short journey. Our caravan remained for two weeks in the village. At the end of that time, I asked Anna to come with me as my wife. You make me very happy, Shari. I could live only with you. I will love you with all my heart. And you will teach me, Shari. You will teach me to see. To see? Does one need eyes to see as you do? Shari, you will teach me to see beyond the horizons. You will teach me to see as you see. We were married. We rode together in a gilded wagon, and the vows were taken under a clear sky. Suddenly, the sky changed. It was only then that I realized what I had done in seeking to save her. I was fulfilling the terrible message of the stars. For it was I, Shani Barastro, who was the instrument fate had selected for her ruin. Then it came. One night, as I stood in the black box outside my tent, I knew that I needed no further word from the mists of prophecy. It was there it had come. He stood among the peasants before our tent, a graceful figure, smiling, leaning on his cane, a man of the world, amusingly out of place in this faraway little village. I looked at him through the holes in my box as I looked. I turned cold. I watched him, and I felt afraid. He was studying Anna. Never once did he stop looking at her. My temper is quick and fiery. I went up to him as he was watching Anna. How subtle he was, how graceful. I seized his arm and demanded to know what he meant by staring at my wife. He removed my hand as if I were a child. I can tell you there was something terrifying in his strength. I most humbly beg your pardon for this misunderstanding. Let me introduce myself. My name is Rico Sansone. I'm a student of the occult traveling about the world in search of knowledge. Inside of me, I feel that girl has remarkable psychic powers. I'd hoped to be able to induce her to join me as my assistant. Soon planning to go on the stage, but now that I know she's your wife, I apologize again for my seeming forwardness. Oh, I suppose there's nothing to do but to accept that apology. And you, Madame? Anna? I think it is fair, Anna. Anna? No. I have nothing to say. It was thus Rico Sansoni entered our lives. Little by little, during the days that followed, he attached himself to us. We listened, Anna and I, to his tales. He had been everywhere, seen everything. He brought the world into our gilded wagon. In his presence, I always felt elated and flattered. Thus, thus does a man move in the grip of his destiny, thus do we dig with our own hands the appointed grave for our happiness. For one night, Anna came to me and took my hands and told me something that made my heart grow black. Shari. Rico Sansone has made love to you. Anna. I've done nothing wrong. I'm afraid of Rico. I tell you this so you will understand my fear. Do you... do you want to tell me about it now? Yes. Tell me then. Rico came to me this afternoon while I was alone. He took my hand and held it gently in his. I suspected nothing until he asked me if I loved you and how deeply I loved you. Then he asked me if I love you more than happiness or life. I took my hand from him and said, I cannot talk of love to you. Even of my love for my husband. Please go. Yes? Rico. She's told you. Sally, forgive me. For a moment I grew weak. Let me remain your friend. I brought you both some flowers. I picked them myself. Will you accept them? You won't accept them? Of course we will, my friend. How could I have doubted you? I understand. Come, forget the entire incident. You are kind. Really, you are kind. This was the third month of our friendship. And now I began to feel it was my companionship he desired, not Anna's. We spent long hours together without Anna. Under his care, my mind was expanding, my powers developing. He seemed interested in my every move. And again, I was flattered, lured, disarmed. You have a funny way of saying the word beautiful, my friend. How is it you say it? Beautiful. That's it, that's it. Beautiful. Hmm? Is that all right? You're telling me about the Houdini method of respiration. Oh, yes, so I was. Beautiful. Very good, I think. I like you, Sonya. I like you very much. Amazing, isn't it? Amazing how one can be drawn in by flattery and charm. Then one day I was sitting in my tent when a curious sense came over me. I felt a pressure on my heart as if a hand were closing around it. It was a warning. I left quickly. I heard the apartment. Anna remained there. She frequently did in the afternoon. I found myself running for the door. I paused, waited until I'd recovered my breath, and then, forcing a smile to my lips, opened the door. Oh. I saw Rico. Rico. Standing with his arms around her. Rico. Her face raised to his lips. Speechless, powerless, I looked at them. I heard her voice murmuring words of love. Her arms moved around his neck and she kissed him. Then I heard his voice. Anna. Anna, my darling. Shari, my love. Anna, my darling. My beautiful darling. The sound of his voice, a horror seized me. Now I knew why he had spent so many hours with me, why he was so interested. It was my voice. It was Barastro talking. It was a voice that seemed to come from my own throat, a horrible, familiar voice, and I understood what had happened. I sprang forward, shouting his name, RICO! He turned and faced me. He pointed his finger at me as if he were an image in a mirror. Rico! He echoed. Murder was in my heart. I flew at this monster. We struggled across the room. He answered my cries with cries that echoed in the throat. The inflection of my voice. I saw him through my rage. His face was contorted like my own. His every feature had changed. He was Barastro. There were two Barastroes screaming together, tumbling over each other. He held me in his hands. In his hands that were like steel. I could not move or cry out. His hand was on my throat. I lay gasping, crazed. And it was Barastro who was holding me. Then this horrible and familiar figure changed. It became Rico. It was Rico Sansoni who spoke. The breath was leaving my body. I was strangling, dying, yet I could hear him. Barastro, God, you're killing me. Sharia, Sharia, mercy. I'm dying. His voice was faint. I felt in this moment the agonies of a hundred deaths. For as my eyes grew dark, I saw with horror the thing he had in his mind. He was pretending it was I who was killing him. And thus he would kill me and go to her. As Barastro, it would be Rico Sansone who would be buried. It would be Barastro who remained. For a moment I caught a glimpse of his cold, ruthless eyes burning now over my face as he enacted his false death, groaning, pleading for mercy. And the strength drawn from the soul filled my lungs. I cried out with all my might. Knowing that by this she would understand it was I. I who was dying. And darkness. Darkness seized me. An hour passed when I opened my eyes. My head was splitting, my throat was stiffened. I raised myself and looked. He was gone. I saw her. She was standing in a corner of the room, crouched against the wall, her hand against her teeth, and staring, staring into the terrible dark around her. Anna! I whispered to her. Anna! It is I, Anna. I, Shari. Anna! Oh, oh, God. Anna, please. Anna, Anna, darling, listen to me. Anna, give me your hand. Anna, Anna, Anna, listen, it is I. It is I, Anna. Anna, Sari, your husband, Anna. Listen, Anna, remember, Anna, remember. Remember when we first kissed Anna? That time on the hill, Anna, remember. I called you little princess. Remember, Anna, Anna, about your trees, Anna. About lullaby, the names you had for them. Lullaby and prayer. Anna, one with its branches pointed toward him, the one we climbed, Anna. Please. Please. Please, Anna. It is I. It is I, Anna. Come here, listen. Listen carefully, Anna. The spirits promise you happiness. Your hands will touch beautiful things. Love and delight await you. Oh, Charisse. Oh, my darling. My honor, my sweet. Oh, darling, hold me close. Yes, my darling, yes. Oh, darling. There, there, my darling. It's all right now. It's all right. It's all right. It's all right. It's all right. Rico had disappeared. We laid our plans, Anna and I. As soon as she was able to walk, we abandoned the carnival. We were inseparable, and she could not bear to have me away for a moment. I understood everything, everything in her soul. Yes, even the trembling that would seize her sometimes when I took her in my hand. It was I alone he could not deceive. I alone. To anyone else, he could become Barastro. Even to her. Whose senses had learned every breath, every inflection of the man she loved. Even to her, he had been Barastro. The months passed. Our life had become again almost like a honeymoon. Almost, I say, for there were nights when I would awake to find her fingers tracing the contours of my face. Then it was I pretended to be ill and remained at her side. We said nothing, but we knew the shadow. The shadow in each other's mind. Everything went smoothly, though, until one evening. When I entered the cabaret where I was performing, I felt unusually disturbed. It was winter. I was removing my coat when it came again, as I had known it would. The warning, the hand closing over my heart. I ran from the place and raced home. I entered our cottage by the back door quietly like a thief, and I stood listening. From inside, I could hear a voice. Oh, Sophie, please. Darling, you're ill again. I'll take care of you, darling. I'll make you feel better. Anna, my dear Anna. How I love you. He was back. One doesn't reason. One does not reason in the midst of a nightmare. Yet terror can wake the mind to a clairvoyance. and understanding beyond thought. I stood motionless, silent, listening. The light was turned out. I heard her laugh. Laugh like a child in the dark. And this sound killed me. Yes, one is dead forever when happiness is torn from the heart. I wanted to rush into the room. I wanted to shout, Anna! Anna, don't touch him! He's Rico! But instead, I slept. Quickly from the house, I walked in the cold streets. My thoughts returned. I had acted out of one clear impulse. Through the terror and agony of those moments when I heard him take her in his arms, there had remained a certainty above everything else. I must save her. And I knew I had acted wisely. Had I rushed into the room and I made a noise, she would have died. She would have known in that moment, as I knew listening to him. That he had been there before. That he had been there before. That he had crept through our defenses as our shadow creeps, and we had not known. I thought of them together as I walked, and then I thought again that I had only to rush back to speak a name. The Essen Destroyer. I kept on walking. And as I walked, I began to understand him. Yes, I was dealing with a monster. He would manage to leave her, as he must have done so often before, a few moments before I was due to return from the cabaret. And if I sensed something was wrong, he would rely on my love for her to keep the sense a secret. He knew me well. He understood I would allow my heart to be eaten away with grief. And I would not make a sign lest I destroy her whom I loved more than myself. It was. I who must be careful, not he. Yes, he knew me. He gambled on me. I determined to kill him the first moment I saw him. Then I began to think. To think of his superhuman strength. That he might kill me, even as he'd at first intended. And that he would go on living with her as Barastro. She would never know I was dead. She would continue to love me in his arms. To press her kisses upon my murderer. And this was the thought that contained it. The fullest measure of horror. The thought of that moment when she would see him. And not me. You understand the grief? The grief of that night? Yes, it is fortunate. I cannot remember it all. I returned home. At the time, at the time Rico wanted me to. I. I wasn't careful about my coming. I trusted him. Do you understand? I trusted him that out of his evil, he would spare her, as I spared her out of love. I entered the bedroom, opened the door, and walked in. She was alone. Anna. Anna, dear. Anna! Anna, it's I! It's I! It's not me! Go, it's I! It's I! Aya! Aya! This is my memory, Ivana. My memory. She seized her face with her hands as if she were tearing something. Yes, the darkness. As I rushed to where she fell. She did not speak again. In the morning, she died. That is the story, as nearly in Barastro's words as I can remember them. When he'd finished, he got up quietly. Looked at me a moment and said, Thank you for listening to me, Mr. Spear. You understand now my prediction that there will be one less magician alive in the world within a fortnight. And he turned and left my office. I must admit that the whole thing shook me rather badly. I've been spent the whole week wondering if something might happen, something I couldn't predict this morning. I think perhaps it came, at least while I was reading through the theatrical weekly variety, and my eye caught a notice. You probably saw it too. Of a magician who had been killed in Mexico City. The account said that two magicians had been together in an automobile accident. While driving through the rail yard district, their car stalled on a track and had been demolished by an oncoming train. One of the magicians, unidentifiable, had been cut to pieces. The other miraculously escaped with his life, although his features were so horribly disfigured that plastic surgery will have to create a new face for him. The survivor identified himself as the marvelous Barastro. And so closes Ben Heck's story of the marvelous Barastro, starring Orson Welles. Tonight's tale of suspense. Before Mr. Wells returns to our microphone. A message from the sponsor of Suspense. Why is the making of good wine like a proverb? Because both are based on long experience. For you to enjoy the many different taste delighting Roma California wines, first there had to be long years of painstaking cultivation of some of the world's finest vineyards. Plus, year upon year of development of the art and skill that go into the making of these fine Roma wines. Your first sip of any of the good tasting Roma wines will confirm the presence of these needed years of preparation. will tell you why Roma wines are America's largest selling wines. Your taste will thrill to the superb quality and the downright satisfaction when you try, say, the tangy, delicious Roma sherry, or the rich, hearty Roma burgundy, or the sweeter, heavier Roma port. You'll be thrilled, too, when you learn such great enjoyment costs so little, mere pennies a glass. You'll want to add your voice to the international praise of Roma wines now rising in many lands. In these words, Roma wines are truly magnificent. Let me repeat the name ROMA, Roma Wines, made in California for enjoyment throughout the world. This is Orson Welles. It was a great pleasure, ladies and gentlemen, as it always is, to appear as a purveyor of suspense. And next week, Mr. Spear would like me to tell you that Mr. Ed Gardner, better known to you as Archie, the elite proprietor of Duffy's Tavern, will make his debut.